


The Advantages of Boring Folk

by brilliant_or_insane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, POV Mike Stamford, Pining, canon compliant s1-3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliant_or_insane/pseuds/brilliant_or_insane
Summary: If you asked one of Mike Stamford’s acquaintances what they thought of him, their first reaction would be poorly-veiled surprise that he had sufficiently lodged in your mind to prompt the question. Then they would hem and haw and stall for time—clearly this isn’t a topic to which they have devoted much thought—before pronouncing him to be a pleasant, steady, unobtrusive man; the sort who earned his credentials through plodding consistency unaided by outstanding qualities.Yet Stamford's brand of pleasant-steady-inoffensive occasionally lends itself to flashes of real inspiration. He isn't the sort to boast, but on low days when he feels intolerably mundane he remembers those moments and smiles, and is content.





	The Advantages of Boring Folk

**Author's Note:**

> If you're in the Sherlock fandom, you've likely come across discussions of how a man like Mike Stamford came to be on speaking terms with Sherlock Holmes. You may even have read some fics about it. I'm interested in that question, too. But I'm less intrigued by the circumstances of that (friendship? acquaintanceship?) than in who Stamford is, and what it was like for him to witness the ups and downs of a relationship he helped initiate. So in the end, this story is three things:
> 
> 1\. My personal take on how Stamford might have come to know Sherlock (and John).
> 
> 2\. A patchy retelling of s1-3 (with an alternate ending instead of s4) from Stamford's POV.
> 
> 3\. A love letter of sorts to Mike Stamford and all boring, essential people the world over.

If you ask one of Mike Stamford’s acquaintances what they think of him, their first reaction will be poorly-veiled surprise that he had sufficiently lodged in your mind to prompt the question. Then they will hem and haw and stall for time—clearly this isn’t a topic to which they have devoted much thought—before declaring him to be a pleasant, steady, unobtrusive man; the sort who earned his credentials through plodding consistency unaided by outstanding qualities.

Stamford is quite aware that this is how he is perceived, and in rare moments of self-pity he sighs over how dull it sounds. Not that he’s ever attempted to do anything about it; for in truth those acquaintances are largely correct, and although he’s had his daydreams Stamford never could muster the passion to attempt a transformation. In consequence, he stumbled early upon the typically hard-won conclusion that it is far better—not to mention far less effort—to recognize the advantages of one’s disposition than to lament its shortcomings.

Still, this acceptance became rather easier upon the discovery that his brand of pleasant-steady-inoffensive occasionally lends itself to flashes of real inspiration. Stamford isn't the sort to boast, but on low days when he feels intolerably mundane he remembers those moments and smiles, and is content. And now, as he watches incredulous joy transfigure the grief-etched lines of the world’s only consulting detective while the rough-faced army doctor tenderly slides a ring onto his finger, Stamford decides that this right here will go down as his magnum opus: the ultimate testament to boring men the world over.

If he’d tried to boast of his success he would probably have received dismissive laughs at worst and condescendingly indulgent smiles at best. After all, his listeners would remind him, everyone and their sister knew John Watson was head-over-heals in love with Sherlock Holmes the moment they read his first blog post, and it didn’t take long for anyone fortunate enough to see them together to conclude that the infatuation was mutual. But if Stamford had opened himself to such dismissal by pronouncing his success—he didn’t—he would have stuck to his tale. This is partly due to the salient fact that while it is one thing to perceive an electric attraction between companions, it is quite another to predict it between strangers. What would be harder to convey is how utterly different—how seemingly unfit for any manner of relationship—the two men had been mere hours before they met. Most people, seeing John as he was that day, would have sought to steer him in the precise opposite direction of the mercurial consulting detective.

But here’s the thing about being pleasant, steady, and inoffensive: people let their guard down around you. That’s not to say that they impart their deepest secrets; they tend to assume you wouldn’t be able to do them much good there. They simply work rather less hard at disguising the boredom or the melancholy or the annoyance they happen to be feeling in the moment, because your easy manner suggests that you are unlikely to judge and even more unlikely to gossip, and your very boring ordinariness keeps them from being overly concerned about your good opinion, anyway.

For Mike Stamford the professional consequence of this effect is mild difficulty maintaining order in the classroom, and the interpersonal consequence is that individuals regularly depart from his company feeling rather more free and relaxed than when they entered it. Most conclude that their mug of beer must have been particularly well-brewed, or that the chicken was unusually well-cooked. But the perceptive few recognize the real source of release, and as a consequence Stamford is rarely without a few friends whose warmth of attachment puzzles the imperceptive masses.

But that is wandering from the point; the point is that Stamford is the sort of bloke to whom the occasional student will casually confess that they are bored out of their minds, which will earn them a hum of sympathy and an unspoken increase of affection from their dull chem teacher. He is the sort who understands that his mate would really prefer to be home rather than out drinking, because the man hides his tired expression from the others but doesn’t care if Stamford sees it (at which point Stamford will presently hem and haw something vague about preparing for tomorrow’s class, thereby breaking the ice and allowing the other man to likewise make his excuses and escape, usually without any suspicion of the good turn that has been done him). For a time he was also, to the confusion of all and sundry, the sort with whom the universally well-liked captain of the rugby team chose to spend a good deal of his time while studying at Barts. And while he never vocally confided in Stamford, it is only around him that the captain dropped his cheery facade enough to implicitly admit that he had something to confide. Stamford didn't ask, and the captain continued to appear in his room at all hours to study and occasionally stare blankly into the distance with eyes that were desperately sad.

 

* * *

 

Moments of genius aside, Stamford prizes those small vulnerabilities from the most subtly reserved man he has ever known as the ultimate testament to his disposition. But others, unaware that there is anything much to discover about the open-faced captain, are rather more impressed by the treatment Stamford receives from the resident consulting detective. Or rather, they are impressed by the treatment he does not receive. The detective can clear a lab in a matter of minutes—when he first began commandeering labs at Barts he would send anyone who hadn’t already sought to escape his crazed mutterings scurrying off with barbed deductions, and soon enough his mere presence would induce an abrupt and comprehensive leave-taking. At first Stamford left with the others, not wanting to disturb the man when he so clearly wished to be alone, but one particularly boring day his curiosity overcame his impulse to avoid making a scene. So when the detective burst in and the others gathered their things with undisguised exasperation, Stamford stayed put and waited for the verbal firestorm. It never came.

Intrigued, Stamford made a habit of failing to vacate rooms commandeered by the detective, and continued to find himself summarily ignored. At first he supposed that the man must have mellowed, and he had simply been the first to test the waters. But soon enough Lina, a young colleague, decided to try her own luck. It did not hold. Having had her wealth-enabled career laid out before her, she hotly demanded to know why the detective insisted on hating all and sundry, upon which he coolly informed her that she mustn’t flatter herself; she wasn’t nearly interesting enough to be hated. It was merely that they were all idiots, and being surrounded by idiocy distracted him. Incredulous, Lina asked whether he believed “that man”—here she gestured towards Stamford—to be the undiscovered savant of St. Barts. The detective returned to his chemicals as he replied, “No, he’s an idiot too. But he knows he’s an idiot, and doesn’t bother himself or me by pretending to be otherwise.”

Stamford ducked his head to hide a smile. He supposed he ought to but offended, but that was the closest he’d ever heard the detective come to issuing a compliment, and so he determined to accept the intent and not quibble about the result.

 

* * *

 

Looking back, he supposes that was the moment that made it all possible: the moment that established, if not exactly a friendship, than a mutually content tolerance between Mike Stamford and the detective Sherlock Holmes. Stamford didn’t run when Sherlock entered the lab, and Sherlock ignored his existence. Particularly discouraging days were often improved by Sherlock's delight over the success of an experiment, and occasional bouts of loneliness were assuaged by the man’s quiet mutterings and habit of exploding into the room with a bag of severed thumbs and morbid glee.

And as the weeks passed, there were occasional glimpses of something beyond the performance. Like the time he heard Sherlock mutter ‘damn’ over a failed experiment with an undercurrent of genuine sorrow. Or the day he glanced over to see Sherlock looking at his phone with an expression that could only be described as _soft_.

Stamford’s colleagues, convinced that Sherlock had no capacity for emotion, or at least had a thoroughgoing lack of empathy, would have been incredulous if Stamford had attempted to communicate these moments. But if there is one conviction on which Stamford would stake his honor (were he prone to dramatics), it would be this: everyone has masks. And those who seem most transparent are often those who have put the most desperate effort into keeping it intact.

So Stamford was pleased but not at all surprised by these small vulnerabilities, even if he suspected that he was privy to them only because Sherlock had forgotten his presence entirely. It was not until three weeks later, the day Sherlock stilled and gazed at nothing with an expression that might almost be described as wistful, only to catch his eye and quirk the bare hint of a smile, that Stamford realized he wasn't being accidentally let in to these moments—he was being allowed.

Incidentally, that was also the moment Stamford decided that Sherlock Holmes needed to fall in love.

He was caught off guard by the conclusion, because he isn't in the habit of deciding what people need any more than he is in the habit of deciding who they are. But it seemed terribly obvious: if Sherlock allowed him into these moments, he wanted to be seen. Normally he’d think that friendship was a better place to start; but the man had obviously put a frightening amount of work into his defense mechanisms. Revealing glimpses of himself to a person whose presence he’d barely acknowledge was a definite gesture towards wanting someone to see through them, but it was a pretty minor one. Ergo, Sherlock would need very strong motives to push him to properly allow connection with another. Ergo, he needed to fall in love.

Of course, it would take an extraordinary individual to not only receive but also return the love of a man like Sherlock Holmes. Certainly no one who had met him here would do. Any by the by, which genders would he be open to falling for? Statistically speaking female was more likely, but although he didn’t put much stock in stereotypes the man exhibited certain mannerisms which . . .

Oh, bloody hell, what was he on about? He was Mike Stamford, and Mike Stamford was the sort of person who allowed things to happen, not the sort who made them happen. Perhaps Sherlock did need to fall in love; but that was none of his business.

 

* * *

 

“It's not easy finding an affordable flat in London.”

Stamford froze for approximately three seconds—it had been a month and those were the first words the detective had spoken to him. Then, with a more hard-won unflappability than usual, he turned towards the detective and answered, “You could always get a flatmate.”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Really Stamford, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Stamford felt himself smiling. “Someone would. They’d just have to be interesting.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped from his vials to Stamford, scanning for evidence that the comment had been a disguised insult. But then his mouth quirked into that hinted smile that was little more than a softening of his features, then he spun back to his work with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Well, if you find anyone _interesting_ , do let me know.”

 

* * *

  

At the time, Stamford found the whole thing rather ridiculous. For the first time in his life he’d taken it into his head that he’d like to play matchmaker, and then had been all but commissioned to do so, and yet all he could do was sit on a park bench and think that even if Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock, Stamford is Stamford, and that was sufficient to put the nail in the coffin of this endeavor before it began.

That’s when the rugby captain walked by.

“John? John Watson!”

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later they were seated in Regents Park with ceramic coffee cups, and it was transparently clear that John Watson was not fine.

His defense mechanisms had shifted, Stamford realized. Or perhaps he simply no longer had the energy for his old ones. Every now and then he seemed to be making a vague attempt at his old cheery demeanor, but all he could really manage was straight-backed tight-lipped stoicism. He would not meet Stamford’s eye for more than a moment. He transparently wished to get away, to be alone. Stamford wondered whether the very fact that John had allowed Stamford to see him in the past made him appear all the more threatening now.

Normally Stamford would have guiltily provided John with the space he so clearly wanted and so clearly didn’t need, but today he was struggling even for proper sympathy with his old friend’s condition. He was too busy with the anxious, hopeful assessment running underneath his attempts to steer the conversation towards flatshares.

John Watson. _John Watson_. Of all the people to appear at this precise moment … John who is sharply intelligent, albeit in a more ordinary manner than his prospective flatmate/friend/lover. John whose defense mechanisms are the only ones Stamford had ever found on a genuinely good man that could rival those of Sherlock Holmes. John who most definitely used to get a kick out of close-calls and near-injuries on the rugby field, and who did not surprise Stamford a bit when he declared his intention to join the army. John who he’d only ever known to date girls, but whom he’d occasionally spotted looking at blokes in a manner that could hardly be read two ways. John who always stands by the bullied, the outcast, the ones everyone else had given up on.

John and Sherlock would be a cacophonous pair, but with a heap of luck and the one gargantuan moment of courage it would require for one of them to actually bloody communicate, they just might be transcendent.

“You could get a flatshare or something.”

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Stamford smiled.

 

* * *

 

The men’s first encounter was an unparalleled wonder. Stamford couldn’t initially bring himself to turn to Sherlock, anxiety and a habit of acting as if the other didn’t exist overbearing the desire to see his first impression; but Sherlock hadn’t eviscerated John on the sight, which was something. Then Sherlock asked Stamford if he could borrow his phone, but he was not supposed to be talking to _him_. And so with a sudden impulse of duplicity that was almost viscerally unnatural, Stamford announced that he’d left his phone in his coat, feeling his eyes cast down guiltily as he spoke. Oh, but the attempt paid off magnificently, for after a beat John Watson—the man who for the past half-hour couldn’t sacrifice his privacy far enough to look Stamford in the eye—was actually offering the mad detective his phone.

And then they were off, Sherlock using his deductions to impress rather than attack, and John stiffly on guard but intensely engaged; and Stamford was sufficiently caught up in it all to be quite intentional about selecting the _pink_ vial of chemicals to pretend to study while watching their every move.

And at the end of it Sherlock bloody Holmes honest-to-goodness winked at John Watson, and even said goodbye to Stamford as if he were a normal human being with something resembling manners. Then, when the detective was gone and Stamford informed John that “yeah, he’s always like that” (expression tightening with discomfort at this second half-lie, because yes Sherlock is always an arrogant rude bastard who will lay out one's life story before all and sundry on a whim, but he most certainly doesn’t always woo one with his deductions and invite one to move in with him after two minutes and sodding _wink_ ), John didn’t retreat into himself or shake his head; he stood straighter as if squaring for a challenge.

Stamford doesn’t like making predictions, but this whole escapade had been a series of actions he wouldn’t normally take, and he would bet hard cash (figuratively speaking) that Sherlock Holmes would be gone on the rugby captain-turned-army doctor by the end of the week. John, as ever, he found harder to read. Certainly he was intrigued, invested, even somewhat trusting; but falling in love? Stamford couldn’t be sure yet, and he grimaced at the possibility of having condemned Sherlock to an unrequited affection—

Then John updated his blog, and Stamford stopped worrying.

 

* * *

 

Through the plodding ups and downs of the next two years, the doctor and the detective were a periodic source of satisfaction. Sherlock spent rather less time in the lab, and Stamford found that he missed him; but when the detective did come his still-mercurial manner was alternately tinged with a peace Stamford had never perceived in him and an anxious excess of energy easily attributable to unresolved, erm, tension of a promising sort at home. Periodically the doctor accompanied Sherlock for quickly-resolved visits, and in these instances Stamford felt obliged to quietly vacate the room with the others to avoid gawking at the two of them for the entirety of their visit. But the glimpses he caught—John striding quick and purposeful behind Sherlock, the detective practically glowing with the consciousness of it—were quite sufficient to improve a less-than-stellar day.

Despite how little anyone except Molly Hooper, the new mortician who Sherlock belittled as much as anyone but tolerated more than most, actually saw of the pair, within a fortnight lunchtime gossip moved from impassioned discussions of whether the arrogant detective could possibly love and be loved, to bemused acknowledgement that, feasible or not, it was most certainly the case.

 

* * *

  

About four months in, after John wrote about that insane Moriarty adventure, something shifted. Sherlock came more often to the lab, but his focus seemed scattered, his anger at failed tests more frequent then they had been since Stamford guided John through that lab door. It made Stamford anxious at first—perhaps John hadn’t taken kindly to being strapped to a bomb? But the ability of the occasional text to calm Sherlock’s moods and make his face soften with a tenderness that would have shocked anyone else at Barts soon assured him that John’s reaction to the incident was not the root of the issue.

Of course, that didn’t mean the bomb had nothing to do with it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was dead. The news spread through the lunch room, and silence spread with it. Later there would be discussions, defenses and ‘I told you so's,’ but today all was quiet. It was the one comfort of that horrid day: for all their griping, because of John Watson the employees of Bart’s Hospital had been rooting for Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

  

Stamford was too pragmatic to feel guilty, exactly, for the loss John was suffering. He was realistic enough to know that a man as scarred and alone as John had been that day in Regents park might not have lived long without a mad detective to bring him to life, and humble enough to know that he was in no position to judge whether John would have been better off never knowing the detective. But while he didn’t feel guilty, he did feel … involved.

He waited until the second day before texting.

_I’m so sorry, mate. If you ever want to go out for drinks or anything, tell me._

**You’ve turned on him like everyone else. Believe he’s a fake**

_No_.

**Oh. Thank you.**

 

* * *

 

About a month later they did go out for drinks. John’s eyes met Stamford’s, and they were empty. Stamford clasped his hand silently and ordered them beer. They sat in the bar for an hour. Not speaking. Not hiding.

 

* * *

 

It was one year and ten months before he saw the doctor again. He texted a few times but received no response. He wondered sometimes if he should do more, but he hardly knew what that would be. He’d never been good at shoving himself in where he wasn’t wanted, even if he might have been needed.

 

* * *

 

Stamford didn’t like Mary. He went out for coffee with her and John a month or so before Sherlock came back to life. John seemed … better? This was the closest Stamford had seen him to the persona of his rugby days: his manner was tighter, more clipped than it had been then, but he had reclaimed the laid-back ‘all’s-well’ demeanor that was so very convincing and so very fake. Stamford hated seeing it again, but it was better than that day in the bar or the reunion in Regents Park. Wasn’t it?

Stamford just hoped the performance was for his benefit, and that John dropped it when alone with Mary, at least sometimes.

And Mary herself? Her manner was cheery and charming and intelligent and kind, and Stamford could not for the life of him explain why she put him on edge. Then John was called off for an emergency shift at the hospital and Mary stayed a half-hour longer, and she didn’t change. Not one whit.

That is what really worried him.

He told himself that he was being arrogant and ridiculous. He is no savant of human nature, and Mary was consistently entertaining and nice to the barista and sent out none of those warning signs one is alert for in the partners of one’s friends. He’d been delighted when John was infatuated with bloody madman Sherlock Holmes, for god’s sake, and now he’s taking issue with this sane and inoffensive woman? Nonsense.

And yet . . . everyone has masks. And nothing does a number on those masks like being with a lover. Sometimes the mask increases in detail and intensity, because the stakes of being seen are so much higher. In better instances the mask is all but removed, when couples have let one another see and found that everything was alright, somehow. Even outside the charged atmosphere of romance, it takes a consummate actor indeed not to shift the disguise with a shift of company—to increase or decrease or alter it—and, and … well, there should be some difference between the way she behaved around her lover and around a casual acquaintance, dammit!

Stamford distrusted his conclusions, but he disliked her all the same.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was alive, and John Watson was about to be wedded to Mary Morstan. Stamford received a wedding invitation with “John Hamish Watson” written alongside the name of that woman, and he threw it in the bin. He told himself he was overreacting, that John was an intelligent man who could determine his own means of happiness. Yet Stamford couldn’t stop remembering John’s false smiles and Mary’s perfect mask and Sherlock the morning after he came back to life.

 

* * *

 

Stamford wasn’t sure what time the news that the detective was alive had aired that day. But he never checked the news before work, so he wouldn’t have known, anyhow. As a result it was entirely without warning that he walked into the lab to find a dead man leaning over the desk he had once claimed as his own.

Freezing in the doorway, Stamford had the unfamiliar experience of being quite literally incapacitated by emotion. Delight, confusion, dismay, shock, and an unexpected rush of anger on John’s behalf coalesced in a single thought which Stamford rarely allowed himself: _Fuck_.

But Stamford is a practical man, and in a moment he was considering the best way forward. How was one supposed to respond to the resurrection of a casual acquaintance for whom one has somewhat more affection than the number of words exchanged appears to merit? Then Sherlock had glanced in his direction, flinching visibly and looking quickly away when he met Stamford’s eyes. That’s what had decided him. Sherlock no doubt had and would face an overflow of dramatic scenes in the wake of his return, and while the man may deserve it, Stamford had no desire to be the arbitrator of a justice that the world would so unstintingly provide.

So he made his way to his desk, shifted beakers at random, drew in a steady breath, and said: “Welcome back, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock’s head snapped around, mouth falling open slightly, and—

Stamford felt his face softening with compassion and a tinge of fear for the man who could hold that depth of pain his his eyes. And he didn’t have to be told. The detective had not been welcomed home.

An instant later, Sherlock had turned and fled. Long months passed before he returned.

But when Stamford entered the lab the next morning, there was a note on his desk:

_I did it for him. -SH_

It was a truncated and cryptic message from a man who had just proved himself capable of deception on a baffling scale. But, god help him, Stamford believed it.

 

* * *

 

He did not attend the wedding.

 

* * *

  

After three months of silence Sherlock made a rapid succession of appearances in the news: “Sherlock is No Homo!” ( _yeah, right_ ) “The Immortal Detective? Sherlock Holmes Survives a Bullet Wound to the Chest!” ( _oh, thank goodness_ ) “The Crime-Hunter Becomes the Criminal: Sherlock Holmes the Murderer!” ( _shit_ ) “Failure of the Justice System?” “Sherlock Holmes’s Powerful Friends” “Defamed Detective to be Sent on a Top Secret Mission!” ( _shit, shit, shit_ ).

Stamford did his best to ignore it all. There was nothing he could do, and he’d had quite enough emotional upset over a near stranger and a man he’d hardly spoken to since Uni. But one of the rare downsides of a boring life is that it provides little distraction from the crowning object of workplace gossip.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon after Moriarty invaded every screen in the country, Sherlock charged into the lab. He was met with startled cries and the lab cleared quickly, without the familiar grumbling. Eyes were downcast, glances in the detective’s direction were furtive. Afraid.

Stamford did not leave.

Barts’s employees were not the only ones who were frightened. Sherlock was in a state Stamford had not yet witnessed: frantic and harried. Vials and instruments trembled visibly when the detective held them. Once he dropped a chemical-filled beaker, and for a few long seconds he stilled, blinking uncomprehendingly at the scattered shards. Then he jerked back to the table and resumed his uncoordinated endeavors.

Quietly, Stamford sprayed a cloth with an alcohol solution, grabbed a bin, and made his way over to the mess. With slow and deliberate movements he collected the shards and soaked up the liquid. When he finished, he raised his eyes to find the detective staring at him. After a pause, Sherlock nodded once. Stamford returned the gesture and plodded back to his table.

 

* * *

 

A week later law enforcement agencies declared the Moriarty messages to have been a false alarm: nothing more than an elaborate prank. Stamford shared the nation’s skepticism, but when Sherlock again appeared in the lab three days later, all the frenzy was gone from his movements. Instead he was slow. Lethargic, even. Periodically he just … stopped. It unsettled Stamford more than the frenzy. Sherlock seemed, well, _old_ , and nothing could be more incongruous.

After an hour of fitful endeavor, Sherlock sank into a chair and went absolutely still. For ten minutes Stamford continued his work, outwardly steady but inwardly debating. Finally he drew in a deep breath, pulled a chair alongside Sherlock’s, and sat next to him. The man sagged visibly.

An untracked expanse of time later, eyes turned.

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” a twisted parody of the old suggestion of a smile.

“John Watson.” The answer was instant, certain, impulsive, and he cursed himself for it.

Sherlock turned away, but not before his eyes fell shut and tight lines tracked his face. “No, he doesn’t.”

Stamford waited for him to run.

Stillness.

Tentatively, the boring, predictable, trusted man lifted his hand and rested it lightly on his friend’s shoulder.

Sherlock didn’t leave.

 

* * *

 

After his initial start upon finding John Watson sitting on the couch in his apartment that night, Stamford realized that he really wasn’t surprised. That John should have added “housebreaking” to his considerable list of skills over the past years seemed only natural. Stamford spoke first.

“Evening.”

“Sorry, mate.”

“No worries.”

“Thanks.”

“Dinner? Tea?”

“No.”

Stamford nodded and moved into the kitchen, where he filled two glasses with tapwater. Returning to the living room he handed one to John, forcing him to release a tightly clenched fist. John nodded, took a sip. With a distinct sense of deja vu, Stamford sat beside him.

He knew what was wanted. John Watson sitting in his space, unmasked and silent, was a long unseen but achingly familiar image. Unfortunately for Stamford’s unobtrusive good sense, these two seem to have done a number on his impulse control.

“Mary?”

John blinked slowly, face twisting into something like betrayal before falling again. “Gone.”

“Ah.”

With an effort John uncurled his right fist, running a finger around the edge of his glass. “Figures, really. That even my own wife didn’t want me. Never did.”

It was the most revealing confession Stamford had ever heard from the man. He hesitated. Breathed. Wondered. There was no evidence that his first long-ago interference did anyone good.

“I know someone who wants you.”

John exhaled, sat straight, reclaimed the mask. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Funny, that.” Breath. Careful.

“What?”

“He said the same thing about you this morning.”

John’s glass dropped, cracked, spilled.

Stamford restrained an entirely inopportune urge to laugh.

 

* * *

 

Its was all rather inevitable, after that. Of course they took their time getting around to it, but their facades had been beaten too violently to hold much longer. All the same, Stamford felt a distinct sense of relief mixed with his delight when an image of clasped hands flashed onto the lunchroom telly, then zoomed slowly out to reveal a sullen Sherlock and cheekily waving John.

Stamford ducked his head to hide his grin, planning a quick escape before incredulous gossip invaded the momentary silence of the lunchroom and diluted his pleasure. Abruptly the silence was broken by a tremulous, truncated cheer, and the whole room turned with surprise to gaze at the timid mortuary attendant, whose face was quickly turning cherry-red. Feeling grateful and a bit obligated, but with his cheeks already heating with pre-emptive embarrassment, Stamford gathered his courages and claimed the stares with his own rather pitiful “hurrah,” before resuming his plans to beat a hasty retreat. But his movements were arrested a second time when a third voice took up the shout, and in a few moments the entire room was cheering and laughing and saying “I told you so.”

 

* * *

 

Stamford was perhaps the only one who wasn’t surprised when John asked him to be his best man. Nor was he surprised when the offer and the wedding announcement arrived simultaneously over text.

_Hi Stamford. No pressure, but I’d love for you to be my best man at the wedding._

**Congrats, mate!**

**And yes, of course.**

**I’m a bit pants when it comes to parties, though. And speeches.**

_No need to be creative with the Bachelor party, Sherlock’s was quite eventful enough._

_Last time, I mean._

_Um._

**Ha, I can imagine!**

**Actually I can’t.**

_Anyway, I was actually wondering if you’d mind not give a speech?_

_Sherlock and I agreed that one is plenty, and Greg would never forgive us if we didn’t let him talk._

**You won’t get any complaints from me on that score. Congrats again!!**

_Thank you._

 

* * *

 

So, after his hidden and essential contributions to the epic which is finally receiving its seal, Stamford is finally sitting next to John and enjoying Lestrade's speech without needing to dread his own. Greg has done excellently, of course, electing laughs and sniffles from the audience, blushes and grateful smiles from the grooms. And now, just when his ramblings begin to push the boundaries of ‘too long,’ he is drawing to a close.

“Point is, every officer at the yard has wanted to smash these idiots’ faces together for ages.” Laughter ripples through the audience. “But for all our well-wishes, I don’t think we really understood. We knew they were addicted to one another, but we didn’t know they needed each other—not at first. And even when we knew that, we still doubted that they could survive each other,” more chuckles. “We were too dense—yes, Sherlock, that is the only time I’m conceding the point, don’t get used to it—to understand that an angry doctor and a mad detective could just, fit. And later, we thought it was too late. We didn’t understand that they’re the sort of men who will be loyal to and beyond death itself. In short, there were many who loved them, but I don’t think there was a man in the world who _saw_ them.”

At that, John turns toward Stamford with quirked lips, a knowing and grateful smile. As he does so, the tension born of having his long-disguised adoration on display and waiting for Greg’s next barb or revelation momentarily fades from him. And for the first time in their acquaintance, the falling mask reveals purest joy beneath.


End file.
